It’s a weird feeling being dead.
When the lightning hit, physically my body went down, but a part of me went up. I begin to float, like a balloon filled with too much air and no string to keep it on earth. My arms and leg move through the air slowly, inhibited by some resistance.
I’ve never done drugs; not on purpose at least. One time in college I took my roommate’s Adderall by accident thinking it was Advil for period cramps. Not a good experience on my end I concluded. But if I ever did drugs, I feel like this is what people call a “trip”.
The street around me turns to interchanging colors of plum, black, and neon green. Buildings disappear one by one and a high shrill rings in my head. I feel stretched. I feel warm in my center and yet cold at the ends of my limbs. When I try to speak, nothing comes out but iridescent bubbles.
Maybe Dan drugged me on our horrific third date and I wasn’t actually hit by lightning and this is in fact a drug trip. No, I didn’t even get to take a sip of water or eat any of the bread due to Dan’s hogging of the basket.
I’m really dead. I have to be. I’ve been struck by lightning and I’m dead at the age of 25. I died a virgin. I died without landing any acting gig. Not even a commercial. I died without visiting Paris. The Eiffel tower is literally the background on my phone and I never got to see it in person. Emma’s going to have to move out because our rent is too much for one person. I never got a dog. I never finished the Harry Potter series. I never lived to see if One Direction would ever actually get back together. I never finished the last episode of Los Angeles Trauma Center. I’ll never know if the little girl hit by the car lives or dies because I’m dead.
My body caves like I’ve been punched in the gut. I move slowly backwards through this limbo dimension and streaks of light blind the sides of my vision.
Oh God. This is the light. THE light. My forehead strains to shut my eyes. Maybe if they’re closed and I ignore the light I won’t go to it. Is that how this works? But my eyes remain open as if hands are forcing them to watch my ascension into heaven.
“Wake up Lili.”
I hear her warm voice in the distance. Years of smoking leaves her pitch low and crackled, like bad reception on a phone call. I know that voice. I’ve only encountered it twice in my life, but I know it like the back of my hand. It’s a part of me, an audible connection to my link in life.
“Wake up Lili.”